


Sting Like a Bee

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, Its All Right There In The Tags, M/M, No Bees Were Harmed In The Making Of This Fic, Post Mary, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Spanking, You Dont Even Have To Read The Fic Now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: Bees? John's not on board.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I watched [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1PRHAgtTTo) a long time ago, in internet years you understand, where this guy pranks a bunch of people in an elevator by dropping a box full of "live bees". Of course there aren't any actual bees involved but the people in the elevator don't know that. The whole thing just screamed Sherlock to me, a voila - a smutty fic is born. Hope you like your John's Dom and your Sherlock's smug.  
> Shout out to my serious professional editor [Heather](http://threefootroo.tumblr.com/), who would rather edit smutty Johnlock than do her actual editing job any day of the week. ILU  
> Also, I'd just like to say: FUCK YOU SERIES FOUR TRAILERS AND CONTENT LET ME LIVE  
> Thanks. Enjoy.

 

Hate sex.

 

Hate.

 

Sex.

 

It seemed counterintuitive. Granted, Sherlock’s understanding of sex was limited - practical application only having occurred in the last three months - but the term didn’t mesh with his understanding of coitus. He wasn’t a child; he knew the platitude “when two people loved each other very much…” was rubbish but honestly, what would make a person engage in sexual activity with someone they hated? There were plenty of people he hated. The postman, Anderson - less than before but still on a low simmer - several classmates from Uni; the thought of them in any sexual context nearly made him retch.

 

Contemplation continued as he shed his coat, made his way upstairs, as he kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the sofa.

 

“He did say there was nothing in,” John noted, smug, from his chair. “Not sure why you bothered.”

 

Sherlock hummed, still in thought.

 

“Going to be one of those days then? Wonderful.” John rustled his paper angrily.

 

Sherlock’s lip twitched in amusement but he didn’t let it blossom into a full smile. “John, where’s my laptop?”

 

“Kitchen table,” he answered without looking up.

 

Sherlock grunted. “I don’t suppose - ”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Fine,” he dug into his pocket for his mobile, “I’ll just strain my eyes on this miniscule screen.” He squinted for good measure.

 

“I think you’d look dashing in glasses,” John teased. Probably teased.

 

“Are you teasing?”

 

John looked up at that. “Not at all. You _would_ look dashing in glasses. Do I want you to go blind? Of course not, but that’s not really an issue because your mobile is an adequate size and your brightness is all the way up.”

 

Sherlock decided to ignore that. John went back to the paper. It took little time to realize internet research was a waste, nothing but low grade pornography. He huffed in frustration. Asking John was out of the question, he’d look like a fool. Although John had been a perfect tutor as far as Sherlock’s particular gap in sexual knowledge went. Perhaps he wouldn’t make fun. He glanced at John, weighing the pros and cons.

 

“What?” John snapped, not looking up. “I can feel you staring at me.”

 

“Just, um,” he stammered like an idiot, “I was wondering…”

 

“Yes?” John drawled.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “What is the exact definition of hate sex?”

 

John finally glanced up from his paper, blinked, and slowly let the paper fall into his lap, before turning fully to look at Sherlock on the sofa. They stared at each other for seven seconds before John replied, “Why do you need to know what hate sex is?”

 

Of course he wanted details. Sherlock tossed his head back against the sofa and huffed. “Something one of the PCs said to Lestrade after they thought I couldn’t hear.” John didn’t seem satisfied with that, so he went on. “You know, the usual, how can anyone stand to work with me, let alone have sex with me, et cetera.”

 

“And Greg let this person go on like that?” John fumed.

 

“Of course not, but he’s a PC in Lestrade’s office, he’s of low to middling intelligence. Kept at it despite Lestrade’s warnings. He went on until I was too far away to hear but I did catch him saying every time with us must be the angry, ‘hate sex’ kind.” He let his hands flop after the requisite finger quotations.

 

John grunted, clearly ready to march down to NSY and throw a tantrum. “I cannot believe - ”

 

“John, focus. You still haven’t answered my question.”

 

A frown appeared and then John let out an amused huff. “Well, I mean. I should think it were obvious.” Whatever Sherlock’s face was doing seemed to clue John into the fact that it wasn’t, not to Sherlock. “It’s when two people who either simply don’t like each other or are angry with each other have sex despite that fact because the sex is worth it. Sometimes better because of it.”

 

Now Sherlock was sure he was confused. “But... why?”

 

“I don’t know,” John answered, frustrated. “It just is. You know, like make-up sex. You’ve heard of that, I’m sure.”

 

“After an argument is resolved, correct?”

 

“Yeah, like that, but without the solving it bit.”

 

“Hmm.” Sherlock paused to process the new information before coming to his next query. “Why would they think we do that? We don’t hate each other.”

 

“Of course we don’t.” John’s head snapped down with military precision, his earlier anger bubbling up again. “But I suppose we argue enough that they would assume I’m just manhandling you all over the flat when we get home.”

 

“Why are you the one manhandling? Why wouldn’t it be me shoving you around the flat?”

 

John merely raised an eyebrow, managing to convey both _which one of us causes the most trouble?_ and _go ahead and try to manhandle me, I dare you._ Sherlock frowned.

 

“Fine, but I still don’t understand and you know I don’t like not understanding, John.” He crossed his arms and huffed.

 

“All right, imagine a scenario where you’ve done something I’ve specifically asked you not to and I’m so mad I use sex as a form of punishment. That’s the sort of sex they imagine we’re having.” The next was mumbled under his breath, “Why anyone in that office is concerned about what we’re doing in the privacy of our own flat, I have no idea.”

 

Sherlock was too busy sorting out the hot feeling in his gut to explain to John that he frequently sent out sexual signals like a homing beacon. There was something to that idea, the angry sexual punishment scenario.

 

“I’m fairly surprised that hasn’t come up, actually,” Sherlock noted innocently. “Why don’t you use sex as a punishment?”

 

John snorted, shaking his paper back out to continue his perusal. “Because since we’ve begun sleeping together, you’ve learned not to piss me off if you want to get a leg over. You are a genius, after all.”

 

Sherlock’s brain ran through several different scenarios in which he could get John to punish him sexually, seven of which had a high likelihood of being successful, three of which might cause permanent harm to the flat.

 

“No.” Sherlock looked over to find John staring him down. “I’m not stupid, I know that look.”

 

“What look?” Sherlock postured up.

 

“You know what look. You’re thinking of behaving like an arse to get a rise out of me, and it’s not on. Don’t even try it.” They stared each other down for another second. “Sherlock,” John growled, “promise me.”

 

“Promise you what?”

 

“That you’re not going to force me into some wild situation just so I’ll bend you over my knee or something ridiculous.”

 

“Would you really?” he asked, interested.

 

John didn’t answer, unfortunately, merely threw the paper down and stomped off to the bedroom. After three minutes of unnecessary banging, John reemerged fully dressed. As he slipped his shoes on, he gave Sherlock a glower the likes of which he hadn’t seen since before Mary.

 

“I mean it, Sherlock, not even a tie will be misplaced or any and all sexual activities will be rescinded indefinitely. I’m not putting up with whatever that brain of yours can come up with, especially if it’s malicious.”

 

He did his best to look contrite as John delivered his diatribe but, knowing John was too sexual a creature to make good on the threat, he dismissed John’s dramatics. As John stomped away Sherlock was already narrowing down his best chances of angering John just enough to warrant theoretically fantastic angry sex without pushing him into anything too drastic - like leaving permanently.

  
  
  
  
  


Sherlock was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a patient man but he could on occasion remain patient enough to stalk prey like the best of predators. It took nearly three months for John to stop looking over his shoulder and checking his chair before he sat before he’d take a cup of tea Sherlock handed him. Just enough time for Sherlock to formulate and put his plan into motion.

 

And then he struck.

 

“Sherlock,” he heard John call down from two floors up. He let a diabolical grin dissect his face. Not long now. “Sherlock! What in god’s name are you doing?”

 

Mrs Hudson was in position at the top of 221C, just where he knew she would be, still hovering around nervously as Sherlock had loaded up the cedar crates labeled “‘Heather Hill Apiary” from the van outside. She caught John just as he came down to investigate, mumbling about ventilation and worries of escapees. He could hear them chatter, John questioning their landlady in confusion, until an exclamation of, “Bees?!” was heard. Immediately John was down the stairs and ready to put a stop to whatever Sherlock had gotten them into now.

 

Precious, peremptory John.

 

“What are you doing?” he demanded once reaching the bottom stair. “You can’t keep bees in the bloody cellar!”

 

Sherlock turned so he could see John through the Tyvek hood. “Shut the door, I’m trying to keep the temperature regulated.”

 

Despite not making a bit of sense, John turned to do his bidding. Sherlock acted swiftly, dropping the crate, smashing it fantastically, then hitting play on the Bluetooth speaker in his pocket. The sound of buzzing was immediate but John had already turned at the sound of the wood shattering.

 

“Christ, what - ”

 

“John, cover your eyes!”

 

Bless him, John did as he’d asked, swearing up a storm as Sherlock leapt over to begin showering him with bits of torn paper from his pocket, the fluttering against John’s skin mimicking the fluttering of wings. John cursed and swatted wildly with his left arm, right cradled around his face. Sherlock held in his laughter by the greatest of his willpower. While John was busy flinging himself around, Sherlock pulled the toothpick from his pocket and proceeded to jab John on the neck and arm.

 

“God dammit! Sherlock! Agh!” John continued to swear and swing, hopping around the basement flat like a man on fire, until a lucky swing caught Sherlock in the stomach. He grunted, letting out a huff of air that inevitably turned into a laugh. By then he was unable to keep it in, nearly bent double, tears streaming down his face as John peeked curiously out from above the crook of his elbow. Once he caught sight of Sherlock’s hysterical laughter, noted the lack of killer bees, eyes taking in the paper, toothpick and empty crate, he quickly put it together. Despite knowing he was in trouble - John’s you’re-so-dead face making an appearance - Sherlock couldn’t stop laughing.  

 

“John,” Sherlock choked out, hand out in supplication as John came at him, “wait - ”

 

Before he could fight back, not that he wanted to, John had him by the neck and arm and, joy, was marching him toward the stairs, door flung out so hard it banged into the wall.  

 

“Oh!” Mrs Hudson gasped as they went by, jumping quickly out of their way as John yanked him along.

 

“This what you wanted, aye?” John snapped, tossing Sherlock into the sitting room, kicking the door shut behind him.

 

Sherlock righted, spinning around to orient himself before John descended. Too late he realised it wouldn’t be that simple.

 

John tore furiously at the netted hood, nearly tearing Sherlock’s hair out in the process. He swore, frustrated, as he threw it to the floor, letting Sherlock have a mere second to breathe before he grabbed the sides of the tyvek suit and yanked. The zipper tore down the middle with a comical whir and John wasted no time yanking the top half away from Sherlock’s body. It pooled at his feet and Sherlock would have tripped over it if John hadn’t tossed him bodily over to the sofa. He twisted at the last second, trying his best not to land on his front, but it was no use.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” John growled, flipping Sherlock easily until he was bent over the seat, his face planted into the cushion with less than gentle force.

 

Sherlock had never been so hard in his life.

 

“I told you, didn’t I? I said, don’t force me into punishing you, but you just had to push me,” John muttered as he tugged and pushed at Sherlock’s clothes, “you couldn’t just ask for a proper rogering like a normal person, you had to bring bees and stabbing into it.”

 

Sherlock grinned happily as John got his trousers and pants down around his ankles. Luckily John couldn’t see it, smashed into the back of the sofa as Sherlock was, but he must have sensed it anyway.

 

“Oh, you think you’re so clever? How do you feel about this?”  

 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, John was going down to one knee, bringing himself level with Sherlock’s raised arse. Logically, he had prepared himself for this eventuality, had planned and welcomed it in fact, but the first whack of John’s open palm across his arse was like being shocked by an electric fence.

 

“Oh. _God_.” Sherlock’s spine curved against his will, the leather under his grip nearly giving to the pressure from his nails, the curls against his forehead trembling with the exhalation of his gasps. John was speaking but Sherlock could have been under water as far as listening went - John's taunts taking second chair to a bloody great roar in his head.

 

The next slap was harder than the first and it stole his breath a second time.

 

“Christ, John. Oh, god.” He felt like he was being set on fire. His skin was blazing wherever John’s hand landed, rarely in the same spot twice, but Sherlock could feel was the radiating waves of heat as they made their way across his body. The sensation of immersion, the cocoon of bright pain and John’s tactile strength, deepened until all he understood was pleasure.

 

Somehow, and later he would reflect on how it was possible, each slap seemed to rebound and intensify, building on each other. The feeling built and built until Sherlock was gasping, crying out John’s name.

 

“Cry all you want, you asked for this, you’re taking it until I say otherwise.”

 

“John!” He called out one last time, tapering off into a groan as he pulsed against the sofa cushion.  Belatedly he knew he’d been having off with the cushion for the last thirty seconds but the sensation had been background noise to the feeling of John behind him, swinging angrily at his arse.

 

The sitting room was deadly quiet. John had stopped the spanking and had yet to speak. Sherlock was still breathing hot oxygen back into his own lungs, and didn’t much care to see John’s face that the moment.

 

“Did you… Did you just get off?” John eventually asked.

 

“Yep.”

 

“God dammit,” John whispered back. “Well, that defeats the whole purpose, doesn’t it?”

 

“So sorry.” He scratched absently at his sticky thigh, glancing back at the sound of John’s zip being pulled down. He raised an eyebrow, meeting John’s eye over his shoulder.

 

“Shut up. I’ll find some other way to punish you later.” He pulled Sherlock backwards by his hair, and shoved messily against the still stinging skin of Sherlock’s arse with his cock. He grunted, occasionally cursing Sherlock to perdition, sometimes raking his nails down Sherlock’s back, before gasping and tightening his fist and pulling hard.

 

Sherlock smiled serenely as John hastily painted his reddened arse white.

 

He’d have to get the name of that PC in Lestrade’s office. Perhaps send him a fruit basket. That was, if not the best sex they’d ever had, certainly the most memorable. John would come to agree in time.

 

“By the way,” Sherlock quipped, “I hope this hasn’t put you off the idea of having a working apiary in the future. I’m thinking of starting a colony once we retire.”

 

John didn’t reply but his face conveyed a complex series of messages - _why do I put up with you? How could you possibly be thinking about bees at a time like this?_ And _I should have hit you harder._

 

“Good. How do you feel about Sussex?”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading guys. Hope we make it to the end of the January intact. Stay Strong. <3


End file.
